i would rather weave poems
with your leftover memories
memories that i snatched away
from the throat of a werewolf
resting in the dense forest
as he was gulping them.
i would rather dance on barefoot
with your leftover blood fondling on thy floor
floor that was yawning to swallow
those bright shoes of yours
you kept in the wardrobe years ago
before voyaging to the cerulean sky.
i would rather whisper tales
with your leftover bluish ink to the folios
folios that are still grabbing
the smoky fragrances of your cigar
and the torn peripheries still whirling
as the zephyr teases their body.
i would rather paint the canvas
with your leftover hues that lies
lies about your perpetual bond with ecstasy
hiding there millions of scars and wounds
it recites about being blissful all the time
but howls with shattered alphabets.
i would rather knit the novel
with your leftover sentences
sentences that are all mismatched
somehow waving about a pending death
of a body that was embracing to vacate
to the anatomy
of canopies, of bushes,
of oceans, of lakes,
of skies, of rainbows,
of animals or of plants but not
of a human.